


By the fire

by Ellanor



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dúnedain - Freeform, Hobbits, Rangers, just some buddy rangers and their hobbit pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14148840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellanor/pseuds/Ellanor
Summary: In the little Shire village of Stock, the guests of the Golden Perch inn have some unexpected visitors.





	By the fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at fleshing out some dúnedain characters and their relationship with the hobbit folk. Also, just writing more of the Shire life, because hobbits are love, hobbits are life.

Third Age 2964

Stock (Eastfarthing) – The Shire

“Another one! Another!” the ranger shouted with his fist clashing on the wooden surface of the counter. What a merriment was that evening, in the Golden Perch, the inn of Stock. One could say it was a _respectable_ hobbit party, with only a few special guests of the Big Folk as an addition. Maradan of the Dúnedain could barely keep his head up anymore, the tankard shaking in his hand. Yet, he was determined not to lose this competition to Ernulf Brandybuck, who glanced at him with a big smile.

“Come, just another sip.” Toram said, trying to encourage his mentor as a new filled pint was put before his friend, but not to the satisfaction of the ranger. Around them hobbits were cheering to both, Ernulf already finishing his own and waiting for a new one. Sidhen, their third companion, was mildly amused, choosing to remain aside of her companions and merely gaze at this competition. What would commander Halbarad say if he found out how they were spending their patrol time? Would he send them to the Lone-lands? Or perhaps transfer them to the Fornost company? She shivered at the thought, what unfriendly lands.

“Ready to leave the first place to its rightful winner, ranger?” Ernulf laughed, putting his mug down and casting an eye at Maradan. Another sip or two and the poor fellow would find the floor as his resting place for that night.

“Master hobbit. The competition is already won.” Sidhen interfered, aiming to prevent her companion from falling, if the occasion arrived. A young ranger she was, with the blood of the west flowing strongly in her veins, dark of hair and brown of eyes, yet with a degree of wit few possessed these days. Her hand found Maradan's shoulder and she felt his skin hot and sticky, even through his garments. With mild disgust, the she-ranger put her hand away.

“I say let them continue! It is not over yet.” A new voice responded, and Pansy Proudfoot made her presence known. Ernulf was family of hers and she would see him rightfully win, even if it was nothing more than a drinking competition. The rest of the hobbits seemed to agree with jolly Pansy. They even began to sing this rhyme for their ranger hero.

 _"Maradan, the dúnadan_  
_sturdy man of the big folk,_  
_not quick to think but quick to drink_  
_yet he's no match to hobbit folk."_

In truth, it did not last much longer, for Maradan could drink no more, not even a sip. The hobbits nonetheless cheered, while dancing and singing for such a well driven competition. Not oft was it they had such esteemed guests at their little inn. 

The moment of the payment came, with none of the three rangers having a single penny in their pockets. Would their ancestors laugh at them, or feel remorse for the conditions their heirs were subjected to. To be one of the dúnedain these days meant nothing more than to be people of legend or vagabonds. Gunderic Grubb, the inn-keeper waited for their response with a hand extended. Yet it was not them who put a few coins in the palm of the inn-keeper, but Ernulf who gave him a friendly smile before turning to the three.

“You gave me a hearty competition. It was the least I could do.” Toram looked both at Sidhen and Maradan before putting his palm on his chest and giving a small nod. A sign of honor that was, blessed be the halflings and their kindness.

“You have our appreciation master hobbit. If there is anything we can do to repay your kindness…” Sidhen responded before Toram had the chance, being prepared to make in turn the gesture her companion did.

“Keep on with the good work you folks do. The strangest faces I have seen at these borders in many years are yours, those of the friendly Big Folk, and this should say enough.” Ernulf winked and with a bow he took his leave. Sidhen smiled at that, it seemed there are still some who know the lesser truth and keep it to their hearts. It was a reassuring thought, that their fight was not in vain.

The night grew indeed late and tomorrow there will be another day. Maradan grumbled, his energy almost spent, being prepared to fall asleep on the very table. His companions left him. They deserved a night at a friendly fire, not with the stars above their heads but with an wooden roof. One by one the other hobbits departed to their homes and soon in the Golden Perch it was only them and the inn-keeper left.

“Will you not leave?” Gunderic asked them, while rubbing a few mugs clean. To which Toram responded:

“If you will have us master hobbit, we shall remain here this night. We promise not to break a thing.” Sidhen gave a small laugh. There was nothing Gunderic had to object, and so the deal was settled. While their companion and mentor was long asleep on the table, Toram and Sidhen took two chairs and found a sit in front of the dying fire. 

“I am tired of not having money Sidhen.” Toram began, his hands searching his pockets for his pipe. “I am tired of living only from the kindness of others and from the sacrifice of our own. Do we not deserve better? Like our ancestors of the fair isle of Númenórë or the kings of old Arnor lived.”

Sidhen’s eyes remained on the dimming fire and she said nothing for a while. “It is our duty.” the dúnadeth replied, her hands gently taking the pipe from Toram’s own and inhaling the scent. “We should not question our duty, but only perform it.” The weed scent calmed her. “It is the duty our ancestors have performed since the Fall of Fornost to this day. I would not disappoint them.”

Toram could only agree, as he tried to cast his doubts aside. His hand ran through his raven hair and his black eyes watched Sidhen with fondness. For she was his truest friend in this whole realm. The blood of the west flew only half through Toram's veins, the other half being filled by the blood of the men of Dunland. His father, a dúnadan of the Angle, fell in love with a woman of the Ox Clan of Enedwaith and she loved him back, so much that she would leave her clan to come live the life of the north. It has not been easy for her, being so far from her clan in the cold lands of long-disbanded Arnor. And so it came that he bore a skin darker than many, but he was nothing else but proud of his heritage.

“How is your sister doing?” he asked, trying to escape the inevitable silence. Then taking his pipe back from Sidhen. She was always trying to smoke his Southfarthing weed and never bought him any back.

“She is soon to be wed. Her bethothred hails from the North Downs, though I have not met him. Mother says he is a man of little reputation, but quiet and a dedicated historian.” Sidhen mused, trying to remember as much as she could. “I am glad she found one on her liking. She always wanted a family on her own.” she continued, playing with her dark locks. 

“And you chose the ranger life…”

“Some of us must make this choice, so that others might form families.” the she-ranger sighed, with the dimming fire reflected in her eyes. “However I have no reason to complain. Do you know how I never wore one of those fancy dresses, silk ones, like the women of Gondor wear. I wonder how is it to walk all day in them, instead of this garb.” Her arms raised, trying to emphasize her poor garments. "I do hope to wear one at her wedding."

“Would you like to fight orcs wearing silk? I am afraid your pretty dress will end torn apart.” Toram snickered, not bothering to hide his side smirk. Why deny it? He too would have liked some fine clothes, like elvish garbs. The finest clothes he has ever had, were a gift from some merchant in Bree after he and his company saved his cart from some unfriendly ruffians. But they too ended worn and torn.

“Toram!” Sidhen laughed, giving him a friendly nudge. But their snickering faded and an air of seriousness crept back on their faces. Sidhen was first to speak again. “Have you never traveled to Gondor?”

“No.” came the answer, without hesitation. “Nor would I want to. It is too far for my taste. And close to the sea.” 

“Neither have I. But my father traveled there once, sent on a mission by lord Argonui.” But that was some time before she was born, or so her mother told her, before the Long Winter. The younger rangers that were born after that period knew very little about the events that occurred then. It was something shrouded in mystery, something the elders scoffed at when asked, but never answered. Sidhen wondered what happened then that none would dare speak of it.

“If there might be one place I might travel to, that is Enedwaith. I wish to lay my eyes upon the birth village of my mother and ask of my grandparents.” Toram continued, trying to imagine what the village of the Ox Clan looked like. In the words of his mother, it was a structure built atop a hill and surrounded by nothing but vast fields and water. It stood near Gwâl Draig, where only the bravest hunters ventured. Few returned and even fewer with prey from there. Perhaps one day, when the lands will be safer and the people happier. Then he will journey and truly see his heritage.

"Sidhen?" he asked, before taking another puff from the pipe. "Will you sing a little?"

"Sing? Toram mellon-nin, why would I do such thing?"

"For this night still deserves some merriment, and because your truest friend asks you so."

With a short sigh and with the light of the dimming fire in her eyes, Sidhen began to hum a short song in Sindarin she knew from her mother. It described the fair, northern lands of Evendim. 

 **"Calad goll thinna,  
** **i thâr thlossui,**  
**i amar dâr thuiad."**

Light fades to darkness,  
the whispering grass,  
the world holds its breath.

And her voice was the only sound in the cozy inn. A voice that described a land of beauty and tales and sorrow. It was as if it had no place in the country of merry and song that was the Shire. Before Toram knew, Sidhen stopped, and her song ended. Soon they too fell asleep, immersing into the warmth of the room and allowing themselves to fall in a deeper sleep, not keeping watch. From time to time Maradan snored, making the only sound.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Sidhen sings is a poem called Aduial: http://www.science-and-fiction.org/elvish/aduial_s.html and is honestly one of my favorite poems ever. Also I had loads of fun trying to write that little rhyme for Maradan, but I still can't figure out what rhymes with folk. 
> 
> I imagine Toram to look like Riz Ahmed and Sidhen like Melanie Stone in Mythica. Maradan is just an old man.


End file.
